


The Curative Power of Honey and Hippogriffs

by Ravenous_Hesperides



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenous_Hesperides/pseuds/Ravenous_Hesperides
Summary: After the War, new revelations bring Draco face-to-face with his darkest moments and worst regrets.
Relationships: Hannah Abbott/Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	1. Mint

Draco was on his fourth coffee by the time that Potter appeared. 

He wasn't exactly thrilled to see the famous Auror, but this at least meant that he could stop worrying that Potter was dead in a ditch somewhere and that the blame would be laid at his feet. 

Potter had a taste for quiet restaurants and coffee shops with few windows and multiple exits. Draco could only assume that rigorous safety checks were the reason for the other man's late arrival. 

They had met rarely while Draco was in Prague and then they both had always been Polyjuiced to the gills. Draco sometimes had nightmares about eating bowl after bowl of Borscht while desperately running through every detail of his briefings. Potter was a competent handler, but Draco loathed his taste in food. 

Now it felt oddly vulnerable to meet with Potter without the benefit of a disguise. Admittedly Muggle London was vast and there was virtually no chance that he had been tracked, but it still made Draco double check his wards and snuggle into the back corner of the booth where he couldn't be seen. 

Potter slid into the booth looking casual and Draco pushed over a thick file. Potter ordered tea and leaned back to read Draco's information on the new group of Dark Artifact smugglers in Britain. Since the collapse of Voldemort's regime, a fresh group of young and increasingly violent traders had begun buying up the remaining cursed objects from old Pureblood families. The resulting influx to France and Belgium had strained the Ministry's relationship with the Magical governments of those countries. 

It wasn't exactly easy for the Ministry to swing its weight around these days. Most of the Continental Wizarding World was eyeing Britain with distaste for the recent civil war. And the Ministry's collapsed finances did nothing to help. Draco's tireless work in Prague and his careful plan to capture Antonin Dolohov had probably helped the cause, but there was still a lot of work to do. 

"I understand that Dolohov was found guilty," he grunted across the table. 

Potter's lips twitched, but he didn't look up. "Kingsley is thrilled." 

"Oh?" Draco couldn't keep the sneer out of his voice. "At least my heroics are appreciated by someone in Britain." 

"Not just Kingsley, Malfoy." Potter grinned at him. "You have a dedicated little fan club over at the Ministry. Of course, it's an exclusive lot, but we get together regularly and talk about how dreamy your eyes are. Naturally, I'm the President." 

"Naturally," agreed Draco, snarking into his coffee. "It is good to know that my finer qualities are appreciated." 

Potter tilted his head and watched Draco for a moment. "And as President, I nominated you for an Order of Merlin." 

Draco froze for a full second before bringing his drink back up to hide the lapse. "Now. Now. No need to get overeager, I would have given you my autograph anyway." 

Potter kept speaking as though Draco hadn't spoken. "It's been officially awarded by Kingsley. Order of Merlin Second Class. It's been noted on your classified file. For obvious reasons there won't be a public recognition ceremony. 

"Best not alert the other Death Eaters hiding out in Eastern Europe." 

Potter glanced at him, "Your probation was classified for a reason, Malfoy. You've done a tremendous amount of good in the past year and part of that has been due to your secrecy. We'd like to keep your work for us confidential for the time being, both for security reasons and for your own safety." 

Draco nodded. He didn't really have a problem with the lack of recognition. But it was still a pleasure to grind Potter's gears whenever he had the chance. 

"As far as we are aware your cover remained intact during Dolohov's capture. It is likely that Rabastan Lestrange would still view you as a friendly contact. He's gone to ground for now, but the Bulgarian and Serbian Ministries are sharing information with us. If a head pops over the parapet, we'll know about it." 

The implication was clear. Draco was free, but only for the time being. One whisper from his psychotic uncle and it would be back into the fray. He supposed that he should be thanking Merlin that Rodolphos had died during the war. 

"What now?" 

"We advise that you lie low. Keep quiet and wait. The Aurors might need you or we might not. Rest. Train. Eat something. Run your family's business." 

Potter was eyeing the narrow set of his shoulders. "Nestle up to your contacts in the Slytherin circles if you can. This lot," Potter jabbed his finger towards the file, "have been giving us hell. We'll probably ask you to poke around for more information, if we can't get a firm grip on how they're transporting their goods." 

Draco nodded. "Well if that's all, golden boy, I'm going to find a place where the coffee is actually drinkable."  
He shifted himself towards the edge of the booth. 

"Actually there is something else." 

He turned back and found Potter drinking deeply from his tea and refusing to make eye contact. 

Draco might not like the other man, but he had been working with Prince Potter long enough to know when he was about to say or do something that he wanted to avoid. Usually behavior like this meant that Draco was about to be placed in a situation that was on the wrong side of precarious. To Potter's credit, he never asked for something he wouldn't do himself. 

He must really not want to talk about this. He was playing with the packs of sugar on the table, tearing them open and dumping the contents into his drink, even though Draco knew he only took one sugar. 

"Potter spit it out." 

The boy wonder actually sighed before running a hand through his perpetual bed head and gazing at Draco with sorrowful eyes.

"Hermione would like to speak with you." 

Draco's stomach dropped. He thought he could feel all the blood draining from his head. 

He hadn't seen Hermione in years. Not since... His brain stuttered. 

"Why?" The word was a croak. Potter looked up quickly. 

"There is something important that she would like to discuss with you." 

"I- I don't think it would be a good idea. She's.. we.." 

It occurred to Draco rather suddenly that having a panic attack in front of Potter would be a sure way to have the Auror never darken his doorstep again. He focused on breathing slowly through his nose. 

Potter was frowning. "I know that it's not ideal. But she needs to talk with you." 

"I can't. I just got back to the country. I haven't seen my mother." 

"Make a little bit of time. She just wants an evening." 

"Potter," he growled, trying to cover his mounting stress. 

"Malfoy." Potter's voice was just as hard. "You owe her." 

He could feel his heart galloping in his chest. Maybe he would skip the panic and go straight to a heart attack. 

"It's just dinner. Surely you can give her that, Malfoy."

There was a sharp, glittering fury in Potter's eyes. But there was also something sad. 

Draco usually chose not to contemplate whether Potter knew about what had happened between him and Hermione during the War. He had supposed that Potter hadn't known. So far as he was aware, Hermione had never spoken publicly about the ordeal. And Potter treated him decently, much better than he should have if he had known about the... events. 

Sometime during their work in Prague, Draco had concluded that Potter must not know. There was no way that the other man would work with Draco otherwise. 

But now Potter was sitting across from him, with ruffled hair and an agonized expression, and Draco was very quickly reassessing many of the assumptions he had made. 

He swallowed twice and tried to muscle through the sensation of a giant hand squeezing his diaphragm. Potter was looking at him. 

"I can do dinner." 

"Good." Potter's tone was clipped. "She's available next Thursday at seven." 

He slid a small muggle business card across the table to Draco. The card was blank except for a narrow scarlet border. "This will give you the address an hour in advance."

Potter stood and gathered his satchel and jacket before looking at Draco again. 

"She lives a very private life now. I believe she would prefer if you were discreet about the meeting." 

Draco nodded and watched as Potter exited the cafe. He waited another twenty minutes and then paid his bill and left. 

He managed to make it halfway to the nearest apparition point when he couldn't stand it any longer. Gasping for breath, Draco doubled over and vomited into the gutter.


	2. Sorrel

Draco met Hermione five days later at a Spanish restaurant in Muggle London. 

But not before he went on a series of bouncy apparitions across half of Wiltshire to confuse anyone following him. He dropped into Kensington and caught a cab, throwing out the name and address of the restaurant that had appeared on his card and hoping the man would know where to take him. 

Forty minutes later, he found himself being shown into a quiet balcony seating area that was deserted except for one curly head that he recognized instantly. 

His breath came faster. 

She was exactly the same. Long dark curls cascaded down her back and he felt when her eyes turned to him and watched him approach. 

He had taken a double dose of Draught of Peace that afternoon and had more in a flask tucked into his overcoat pocket, but he could already feel his pulse speeding. 

There was a sensation of weight pressing on his shoulders. 

She stood as he walked over to her and he caught a glimmer of silver out of the corner of his eye as he took her in. Her curls were still wild down her back, thick and untamable. 

"Malfoy," she said as he joined her and his name sounded soft and calm from her lips. He had almost expected her to spit the words out at him. 

She turned and reached out her hand to him and Draco felt his world tilt. 

He couldn't touch her. He could not touch her. 

You don't deserve to touch her, whispered his mind. 

She was standing there and her hand was extending out towards him and he knew that he had to take her hand, but he couldn't. 

She would expect him to shake hands. It was polite. It was normal. And he could not do it. 

He was vile and if he touched her, than she would sense it. He would be touching her with his unclean hands and it would be evil. So evil. He should never have come here. 

She looked confused for a moment and then a little bit hurt. And someone inside his brain was screaming at him. Take her hand! Take her hand you idiot! You pathetic idiot! It is a handshake!

But he couldn't do it. 

He saw her eyes turn dark. She thought he was rejecting her. She thought that he didn't want to touch her. Perhaps she thought that he still harbored blood prejudice and that shaking her hand was beneath him. 

His head was swimming. Everything inside of him was screaming at him. And he just couldn't do it. 

Her hand started to drop and Draco knew that if this moment passed unaddressed then he would lose her forever. Not that he had ever had her. Not that he should even dream of such a thing. 

Almost nauseous, he did the only thing he could think of and fell back on his Pureblood training. Years of being Lucius Malfoy's only son and heir had more than prepared Draco for formal addresses. He stood very straight, clicked his heels together and sank into a very deep and formal bow. 

He didn't think that she would understand the full meaning of the gesture. In Pureblood circles, the degree of the bow and the placement of the hands conveyed very different messages. He didn't know if she would understand that he was giving her a sign of ultimate respect, that he was honoring her as deeply as he could with a gesture. 

But Muggles knew how to bow. It might be seen as antiquated among them, but a bow still conveyed deference and respect. He hoped desperately that his gesture had somehow translated. That she would understand that he was not snubbing her by refusing to take her hand. 

He stayed, sunk in his bow, for a long moment feeling the seconds tick by. And then he straightened and looked at her. She had dropped her hand and was simply staring at him. 

There was remoteness to her gaze, but she didn't seem offended. 

"Should we sit?" she asked. 

He breathed out deeply and nodded. He knew that he should move to help her with her chair, but somehow it seemed like too much in this moment. If he accidentally touched her or brushed against her, he felt as though he might faint. 

He focused instead on settling himself across from her and taking a large gulp of water. 

Maybe she was also nervous. Her posture was rigid and her face slightly flushed. That was more than fair. She was the one with a right to be upset at seeing him.  
If he had seen her on the street, he would have ducked into an alley to avoid forcing her to look at him. 

It was pure weakness on his part that he allowed himself to be this agitated. He should be stronger. She was holding herself together so much better than him. 

They barely said anything to each other as they ordered drinks and appetizers.

He'd had a lot of time to contemplate what she wanted to talk with him about. He had thought at first that she would want a reckoning. He was back in Britain now after time away. If she wanted to berate him or scream at him or just Crucio him for an hour, he would have laid back and let her do it. It might have assuaged some small corner of his guilt to offer her whatever retribution she desired. But this setting was all wrong for that. It was too public. She must want to keep things level and calm. 

Maybe it was blackmail. 

Hermione Granger had a sterling reputation of course. She was moral through and through. She saved House Elves and Potter and Wizarding Britain before the age of twenty and never even asked for a thank you. She was perfect. 

But Draco had figured out at some point during his school years that she was also completely willing to break any and all rules if she felt that her end goals were justified. He hadn't spent two years staring across the Dining Hall at Marietta Edgecombe's extra-long bangs without gaining a deep appreciation for just how scary Hermione Granger could be when pushed. She never did things for personal gain. That would have been far too Slytherin. But if she felt her friends were in danger or the greater moral good was at risk, she would go to the ends of the Earth. And she was smart enough to be devious while she did it. 

Blackmail, then. She wouldn't ask for money. That would be far too gauche for a girl like her. Maybe she wanted his support in some way. He was technically the heir to the Malfoy and Black Wizengamot Seats and would likely end up with the Rosier seat within a few years. The seats were in abeyance but he might be able to claim them with support from Kingsley for his post-war heroics. If she wanted some sort of legislation pushed through, he could probably do it single handedly. 

Although, he hadn't heard anything about her being involved with politics. Really, he hadn't heard anything about her at all. Potter had been correct about her living a very quiet lifestyle postwar. She very occasionally appeared at a gala for photographs with all the war heroes, but her daily life was a black box. 

Maybe his library? It was a touch ridiculous, but she was a natural scholar and he had one of the best private libraries in Britain. The Ravenclaws had sniped about her brilliance during their Hogwarts days. More than one of them had been jealous of her grades and had comforted them self with the idea that she was more of a grade grubber than a proper academic. They would mutter to themselves that she blindly memorized facts and lacked the true Ravenclaw spark. It was a hysterical level of self-delusion, anyone with eyes could tell that Granger loved learning for its own sake. She just wanted to know things - to know everything. She had wanted the grades too, of course, she'd always been competitive in that way, but he didn't think that one negated the other. 

The waiter brought up their first course and Draco stared across the table at her. She was silently cutting up her lamb meatballs into smaller and smaller pieces while her temple twitched as though she were grinding her teeth together. 

Maybe she didn't want to go to the Manor? That was fine. He hated the Manor. He would burn the Manor down if he could. He would take every tome in the Malfoy and Black libraries and move them into a separate building. Maybe he would make a public library. She would approve of that; it was a very Muggle thing to do. Very egalitarian. And he could name it after her. The Hermione Granger Wizarding Library and Archives.  
He looked back at her. She wasn't eating. She was staring at her food, as though it was a monumental task that she did not have the energy to tackle. 

Maybe this wasn't about his library. 

She looked so stressed. He could almost feel the tension in her shoulders. And she wasn't saying anything. Maybe he should tell her about his library idea? Or offer her his Wizengamot seats? Maybe he should just leave? He could feel her anguish mounting across the table from him. 

Should he talk? Would that help things? 

A waiter mounted the steps with the main courses. Draco wondered what this must look like to the other man. He and Hermione were seated alone, silently playing with their uneaten food.  
Draco swallowed more water. 

She was staring down at a beautiful plate of fish with an ashen look on her face. He could almost feel her tension radiating across the table. It felt as though she were wound so tight that a spring inside her might snap suddenly and send the shattered pieces of her out across the restaurant. 

Maybe she was ill. She looked ill. He hadn't thought so at first, but that was because she was so overwhelming. He had been distracted by her big dark eyes and hadn't looked close enough. He could see it now. She was too slim. He could see the delicate bones of her collarbone at the neckline of her dark blue dress. Her hands were too nervous. She kept dropping her fork onto the china of her plate and then tucking her hands quickly into her lap, as if to hide her embarrassment.  
But why would she want to talk to him about being sick. Surely she should be at St. Mungo's or one of the specialist hospitals on the continent. She should be surrounded by adoring Weasleys and Potter and news reporters interviewing her about her heroic struggle. He cast his mind around. 

It must be Bellatrix. She had used a cursed Lestrange knife on Hermione when... when everything had happened. Old artifacts like that could carry powerful curses and combining that with Blood Magic could have untold effects. He should pay for her treatments. That was the least of what he could do. If not St. Mungo's than the Centre Hôspitalier des Magique in Paris. In fact, that was a better hospital. He would contact them immediately. He knew that there were a handful of curse breakers in Russia who specialized in cursed weaponry. He would contract with one, bring them to Britain or wherever she was being treated. 

"Draco," her voice cracked as she said his name and he looked up sharply. 

She licked her lips and opened her mouth to try again. 

"Are you sick?" he asked. He couldn't keep the question inside. "I'll pay. Whatever treatment you need, I'll pay for it. Is it the dagger? I don't know what happened to it after the war, but I can find it. Rodolphos panicked after the three of you breached the Lestrange Vault. He and Rabastan hid things instead of entrusting them to the goblins. But I have access to the Chateau. I can bring people in to search, if that's what you need. And I know some high quality curse breakers in Russia. I can-" 

"Draco!" She cut him off. "I'm not ill." 

"Oh," he felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. 

She picked up her silverware and began to push her meal around the plate. She wasn't looking at him again. 

"Granger," he tried hard to keep level, "What is it?" 

Her knife dropped with a clang and he watched as a spasm of pain crossed her face. He could just see a tear in the corner of her eye before she buried her face in her hands. 

"I'm sorry," her voice was muffled, "this is all just so much harder than I thought it would be. I need a moment." 

He didn't move. He just sat watching her. She wasn't crying exactly, but her face was hidden away and she was breathing hard. 

She twitched suddenly, her shoulders moving as if to throw something off. 

"Granger," he stood. 

"I said give me a second!" her voice was a snarl. 

Draco dropped back into his seat quickly. His eyes wide. He shouldn't have stood. She needed space. He needed to give her space. He felt the bile rising in his throat again. 

But then he caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye just behind Granger's left shoulder. He had seen it before when he'd walked up to the balcony. And of course, he'd seen it everytime he had fieldwork with Potter. Granger's anger hadn't been directed at him. She had almost been yelling at the open air. 

"I'm sorry," she said again. 

Draco never wanted to listen to her apologize again in his life. None of this was her fault. Nothing was her fault. 

He tapped his ring finger against the glass in his hand. It was an old signal from when Potter had first started wearing his invisibility cloak when Draco went to meet with the Death Eaters hiding in Prague. They had relied on a mixture of hand signals and code words spliced into sentences to communicate. Draco would distract whoever they were meeting and Potter would usually search the house. The meaning of this particular signal was blistering. He might as well have just screamed at Potter to fuck off. 

There was no response from over Hermione's shoulder. But she looked stressed and was rolling her shoulders anxiously, as if Potter were touching her.  
He waited a few moments. But she kept squirming. 

Draco felt suddenly angry. If Potter had been planning on joining this meeting, he could have been in the open. Draco didn’t appreciate his Auror handler listening in on private conversations, especially when it was clear that Granger didn’t want him to be present either. 

"Potter, if you're going to interfere this much just drop the cloak and join us." Draco grit the words out, trying to keep his voice level.  
Hermione glanced across the table at him, her face almost white, and behind her the cloak dropped to reveal Ronald Weasley's freckled face. 

This wasn't good. Draco had never had a strong relationship with any member of the Golden Trio, but his experiences with Weasley was uniformly bad. Potter had cursed him during their sixth year and generally loathed him for their entire school years, but they had also spent a great deal of time working one-on-one during Draco's strange parole in Prague. Weasley had no reason to trust him and lacked Potter's seemingly endless font of forgiveness. 

The redhead was glaring at him. 

"Ron!” Granger sounded panicked, “This is a muggle restaurant. You'll be seen." 

Granger seized Weasley bodily and dragged the invisibility cloak off him, before shoving him into an empty chair. 

Weasley's eyes were raking up and down Draco's body and his lip was curled. 

"Ferret." 

"Weasel." 

Granger was apparently uninterested in the forthcoming pissing match. Draco doubted very much that she would be able to prevent much. He and Weasley had started off on the wrong foot when they were eleven and would likely stay there for the rest of their lives. 

"God damn it, Ron. I told you and Harry that I wanted to do this alone." 

Weasley didn't move his eyes from Draco. "Well someone had to make sure you were safe." 

"I am perfectly capable of ensuring that I am safe." 

Weasley stiffened. Draco would have as well if that tone were directed towards him. He thought she might throw a hex. 

"Well, what if you needed support?"  
Hermione let off an angry sound that reminded Draco of a tea kettle. "Rubbing my shoulders while I'm gathering my thoughts is Not support." 

Weasley rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something under his breath. 

"Stressed?" Granger was properly furious now, "Of course I am stressed. This is very stressful. I have been, am, and will be stressed. And unsolicited backrubs are not helping." She balled up the invisibility cloak and threw it into Weasley's face. "This is my meeting Ronald. If you want to make sure that I'm safe, you can wait outside." 

Draco didn't think he had ever seen Weasley move so fast. The other man was up and halfway down the stairs before Draco could draw breath, although he somehow managed to send Draco a deathly glare on his way out. 

Granger's had spots of pink on both her cheeks. "Honestly, I told Harry specifically that I didn't want anyone interfering. I can't believe he lent Ron the cloak."  
She looked up at Draco suddenly. Her mood had shifted. She didn't seem panicky and distraught anymore. She felt resolute. 

It was the most Gryffindor thing Draco had ever seen. She was looking at him as though, he was just another school project to tackle. As though he were an entirely manageable challenge. Nothing could daunt the great Hermione Granger. Draco wondered if she had looked like that before she destroyed Voldemort's horcrux. Somehow it all meant more, knowing that she had spent this entire dinner in a state of nervous dread. 

She lifted her chin and held his gaze. 

"I need to talk to you about something, Malfoy. And I need you to promise me that you will not share the information with anyone." 

"I can make an Ubreakable Vow, if you like,” he offered. He was serious. She wouldn’t have called him here if this were not important and whatever it was that required his silence he would promise it to the grave. 

She made a soft noise in her throat. "No, I just want your word." 

Draco felt the weight of her request on his shoulders. He nodded, careful not to break eye contact. "I Draco Malfoy give you my word to you Hermione Granger that on my magic and my name, I will not to divulge any secrets which you tell me tonight." 

She nodded in return and took a quick drink before looking back at him. 

"You have a son." 

"What." 

The word escaped him so quickly that he didn't have time to stop and consider what he was saying. His brain felt weightless. Actually, he thought he might be dead. It felt as though he were floating above his body. 

"You have a son," she said again. Her voice was jerky, "I gave birth to your son.” 

He tried desperately to use Occlumency. It was the only thing that got him through the nights sometimes, when the memories of the war would rear up and threaten to tear him down. He would find himself floating in a sea of memories. Sitting at a table and watching Charity Burbage being murdered and he would build his mental walls as high as he could. 

She seemed to decide that his lack of response meant that she should keep talking. 

"I found out after your arrest. Obviously, it was impossible to speak with you after you were in Azkaban. I thought about reaching out once you were paroled, but I wasn't sure you would want to know or what your..." she searched around for the right word. "What your feelings towards Muggleborns really were. It's one thing to give up prejudice and another to have a Halfblood son. And I wasn't sure that you would want to know. You don't have to do anything, by the way. We're fine. We have money and a wonderful house. You don't have to do anything. I just thought that it might be the moral thing to tell you. I mean, fathers should have a right to know their children and you can't know him if I don't tell you, so I did." 

She trailed off looking distraught, "It’s the right thing. It’s the moral thing, to tell you.” 

She looked as though she might cry again. And he wanted desperately to hold her. He wanted to stand up from the table and sweep her into his arms and promise that this was the single greatest moment of his life. That he could imagine nothing better than a son. That he would love the boy to his dying breath and beyond. But instead he just choked out a question. 

"What's his name?"

She blinked. "Orestes. Orestes Rigel Granger"

A son. He had a son. A son named Orestes. He wondered what he looked like, if Granger had given him a toy broomstick yet, if he was smart. Who was he kidding, of course the boy would be smart. He would be brilliant. He would be perfect. He had a son. 

“When did you…” he trailed off. 

“I had him just after Christmas.” She looked down at her lap and back up at him, “He’s three and a half now. “

"Can I meet him?" his voice sounded desperate. 

Her eyes widened. "I wasn't sure that you would want to." 

"I want to meet him. Please Granger. Please." 

She nodded jerkily. 

He felt feverish, "When?" 

"Maybe next weekend. I'll need to set things up. I'll have Harry send word; he's our Secret Keeper. He can bring you to the cottage and give you access.” She paused for a long second, “I might ask you to make a Vow." 

Draco could feel his heart racing. "Whatever you want. Just please, I want to meet him." 

She looked up at him with a frown between her eyes. "Yes, Malfoy. You should meet him.”


	3. Anise

Draco had always found the memories of his first official Hogwarts flying lesson to be troublesome. When he had been younger, it had been that the memories were focused on Potter out flying him and landing a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team as a result. Draco had spent a fair amount of time seething over that slight during his first year. If there was anyone who should have been allowed to join the team as a first year, it was him. Everyone made such a fuss over Precious Potter. 

When he'd grown older, after the War, the memories caused a different sort of pain. They made a piece of his gut twist. He had to presume that everyone had some memories like these, ones that weren't so much overt bigotry as general childhood bad behavior, but he still felt that he must have more than most other people combined. It sometimes felt as though he'd spent half of his time figuring out ways to be petty. 

Among the ranks of his bad memories, it was a more minor incident. He hadn't shouted blood prejudice at anyone or been toadying around after Umbridge. Still, he didn't enjoy thinking about it. 

He'd thought sometimes about reaching out to Longbottom. As much as his focus had been on upstaging Potter, it was Neville that he had caused real pain to. Neville who had been humiliated, with no superb flying skills or Quidditch spot or Chosen One moniker to make up for the broken arm and utter humiliation. 

Draco had spent enough time in Azkaban with the handful of Dementors that still patrolled the corridors to know exactly how stupid and cruel he had been for most childhood. He had relived every moment a thousand times. 

But there was one spot in the memories that were calm. It had been after McGonagall had dragged Potter off, when Hooch had been trying to reassert her authority over the class. Everyone had been chattering over whether or not Potter would be expelled and Draco had been shoved off into a corner where he had found himself standing next to Granger. She had been struggling to get her broom to respond. 

Hooch was a disinterested flying instructor at the best of times, but Draco hadn't figured that out until he was much older. The woman was accustomed to teaching children from wizarding families who barely required any instruction at all. It was assumed that everyone had spent some time on a broom and knew how to fly. Hooch was mostly focused on scouting talent for the house teams and keeping everyone alive. She didn't particularly care that Granger could barely make her broom roll over on the ground. 

It had been fascinating to watching Granger struggle. They'd been in classes for only a few weeks and he was already aware that she intellectually outclassed most of their year. But he also comforted himself with the reassurance that it was because she had probably memorized half their textbooks. The only thing that could help her with flying was practice and she'd never had that before in her life. Not if she'd been raised by muggles. 

He had been preening internally, congratulating himself on finding a place where he was obviously superior. And he'd always enjoyed watching her. Even back then. There was something so satisfying about watching her eyebrows scrunch up in concentration, whether she was reading in the library or fighting with an unruly broom. Something about the way she tossed her hair that always drew his eyes. 

She'd huffed in annoyance and looked around with a scowl. And then Draco had done something ridiculous. He'd offered to swap brooms with her. And she had stared at him as though he had grown an extra head and blurted out, "Is this a trick?" 

Sweet Circe, she was a pure Gryffindor. No Slytherin, not even one in their first year, would ever have been that blunt. 

He'd been caught so off-guard that he'd angrily huffed out an indignant "No" before catching himself and trying to get his emotions under guard. It had been something that his father had constantly lectured him about in the run up to Draco's entry into Hogwarts. Apparently, he had been too flighty and emotional to make a good showing as a Malfoy. 

"It's definitely a trick," she'd muttered. 

"Fine. I won't tell you what you're doing wrong." 

She'd turned back to her broom and kept trying to order it up for another minute, her voice becoming increasingly strident. And he'd watched her while smirking at her incompetence. 

He knew she could see him out of the corner of her eye. And she was getting more and more upset. Finally, she had tossed her hair and turned to him and said, in her loudest and bossiest voice, "Very well. What am I doing wrong?" 

She'd probably never asked anyone for help in her life. She certainly hadn't shown the tiniest bit of shame or deference. But he'd still taken it as a victory. Hermione Granger needed his help. 

"Stop bossing it around. It's not a house-elf." 

"A house-elf?" She'd frowned and he realized that the reference to elves hadn't landed for her. He wondered if she'd ever seen one before. Maybe that would impress her. Maybe he should introduce her to one of the Malfoy elves. 

"It isn't a servant. The broom isn't there to do your bidding. It's a tool to work with, like your wand. You want your magic to connect with the broom and then you channel your magic through it. It’s not as powerful as a wand, but it works the same way.” 

She looked gob smacked. "That isn't how Madam Hooch explained it at all!" She'd sounded so outraged that he'd wanted to laugh. Then she frowned, "And why should swapping brooms help at all." 

He'd smirked. "You didn't bond with your first wand in Ollivander's did you, Granger? Besides these are all old. That one might just be difficult." 

She'd glared at him for a long moment, before nodding sharply. "Alright, we'll swap brooms." She'd said it as though she were marching into battle.   
And she'd stomped over to his broom and held out her hand and snarled "Up" as though she could scare the broom into responding. Draco had just held off from laughing, since he thought she might kick him if he did. 

"Don't order it around, Granger. Ask it." 

She'd looked at him and then closed her eyes. He hadn't been sure, but he could almost feel her calming down. Her breathing settled, and somehow her hair seemed less bushy. And then she'd slowly lifted her hand over the broom and said with confidence, "Up." And it had risen up through the air to meet her. She'd let out a happy shout and nearly dropped the broom. 

Several Gryffindors had looked over, but most of the Slytherins had been too busy to pay attention to Gryffindor's little know-it-all. She'd turned and looked at him and she had been smiling, a big genuine smile with sparkling eyes and wild curls. And she'd said, "you must be the best flier in the year, if you can explain that better than the teacher." and his heart had sang, because here was someone who thought he was better than Potter and better than the teacher. And Granger didn't give out compliments to anyone, so she must mean it. 

Draco thought about those memories all through the day after his dinner with Hermione and the day after that. He thought about their second year when Hermione had been petrified and fourth year when Krum had taken her to the Yule Ball. He thought about the time that Granger had slapped him. 

Draco was living in a townhouse in London, something he had inherited through his Rosier grandmother about two years after the war and which consequently had not been confiscated or stripped of valuables by the Ministry. He still hadn't been back to the Manor. His mother's weekly invitations to tea went unanswered. He didn't understand how she could imagine that he would ever go to that place again. He would live and die and never go back to Malfoy Manor. 

His memories rose and fell and swirled around him. He thought of every happy feeling he could remember and he tried to stave of memories that were much darker. 

And then there was this boy. His boy. His son. 

Orestes Malfoy. Well, it was Orestes Granger. 

Draco's thoughts went round and round. Half the time he was on fire, alight with visions of this unknown child. And half the time he was sunk in memories. He dreamed of Granger bleeding on his drawing room floor. He dreamed of her bright and laughing as she dueled in Defense Class. 

At some point, on the third or fourth day, Draco startled to the sound of an owl tapping on his window and realized that he had barely moved from his bed in half a week. The letter was from Potter. Well, the letter was a form to subscribe to a Quidditch fan magazine that Draco had read in his youth. But a few quick spells decoded the message. Potter said nothing at all about Hermione, Orestes, or life altering secrets. Still, there was a subtle sense of approval woven into the message that surprised Draco. He had supposed that Potter was like Weasley and preferred for Draco to keep his distance from the Golden Girl. 

Draco wasn't sure that he really cared about Potter's approval or disapproval, but the other man was his only gate into his child's life at present and Draco wasn't going to undermine that connection for anything. Granger clearly preferred to communicate through Potter and, until that changed, Potter was indispensable. 

But now, Draco had a date. A date when he would meet his son. 

Saturday. He would meet Orestes on Saturday. 

He was not prepared. 

He would need things. He needed more Draught of Peace for starters. He had nearly ruined everything with Hermione when he had failed to shake her hand. His haphophobia was manageable among Purebloods, who rarely touched each other outside of close familial gatherings, but he needed to prepare for a child.   
Draco knew almost nothing about children. 

He knew nobody with children. Well, there was his mother, but she would ask questions and he could hardly tell her about Orestes. Beyond that there was a thin list of friends who were still speaking to him, and none of them were likely to be experts. Blaise Zabini would most likely walk off a cliff before he procreated. Theo Nott was a moody only child with a truly frightening father. And Pansy had been raised by wolves. 

There was nothing for it, he needed books. Lots of books. 

And maybe a gift. He didn't want to buy his son's love, but surely a toy couldn't hurt. He had grown up with every toy in the world. He'd had mountains of them. He had once owned every style of junior broom on the market. 

Yes. He would buy a few toys. Nothing unreasonable, just everything and anything a three year old boy could want. 

Of course, Draco Malfoy could not be seen purchasing a child’s toy or a book about child rearing anywhere in Diagon Alley. He was persona non grata in most circles, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t rampant speculation about his life. It was awkward enough traversing the areas of Wizarding London where he wasn’t wanted, but he could only the imagine the furor that his going out a purchasing a child’s picture book would cause. 

No. This would take careful planning. He had promised Granger that he would tell no one about her son and he would keep that vow. He couldn’t be seen buying children’s books or gifts. The Malfoy vaults couldn’t be credited for orders and they couldn’t be delivered to his town house. He would need to be cautious.   
With the overcautious thoroughness that had helped him capture an infamous Death Eater only a few months ago, Draco began to plot his covert operations for buying Orestes every gift his heart could imagine. 

\- 

The sun had set and Draco was halfway through writing up a list of possible gifts when a second owl arrived. It was Hecuba, Pansy’s surly black-banded owl carrying a short note that pointed out that Draco had missed their planned dinner by nearly three hours.   
Given that the dinner had been planned a month ago, she was more than a little testy. He was instructed to make his apologies or excuses at his earliest convenience. 

Draco sighed. His relationship with Pansy had been complicated at the best of times. She had never truly forgiven him for shutting her out so completely during their sixth year. She had apparently heard through his mother that he was back in the country and had contacted him with a note that it was time to mend fences and that she wanted to introduce him to someone, but hadn’t been particularly warm. Then again, Pansy had never been particularly warm. 

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and stewed on the topic. He was unlikely to be good company at present. Mostly, he wanted to plot his assault on London’s magical toy shops and possibly fantasize about what Orestes might look like. But he supposed that he owed it to Pansy to try and be polite. 

It was late when he stumbled through Pansy's marble fireplace and was greeted with the site of her sprawled out on an elegant fainting couch with Lavender Brown nestled into her side. 

It was obvious that the other girl had fallen asleep while they were wrapped around each other. Draco coughed softly to get Pansy's attention and, when she didn't immediately order him out, he turned his back to the girls to offer them some privacy. 

He examined the fireplace while Pansy woke Lavender. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship with a trailing pattern of vines and bees carved in low relief along the mantle. Pansy had started an interior design business after leaving Hogwarts and her townhouse was the picture of elegant sophistication, if rather smaller than what she might have expected before her father was forced to pay reparations for his role in the war. 

He wandered over to the bar cart to make himself another drink and provide him with something to do with hands. Clearly, he should have owled her back instead of showing up in person. 

He turned around after a few moments, fully expecting that Pansy would give him an earful for his late arrival and interruption.  
But she looked serene. There was no hiding the soft glow in Pansy's eyes when she looked at Lavender nor the gentle way that she wrapped the other girl in her shawl before seeing her out the door. 

Draco was slightly floored. He had always known that Pansy preferred girls. He'd watched as she'd spent their first few years at Hogwarts nursing crushes on Isobel Yaxley and Daphne Greengrass. But at some point Periwinkle Parkinson had thoroughly crushed that aspect of Pansy, and she had spent the next few years wildly flirting with Draco in increasingly obvious and desperate ways. 

But now there was a reflection of that shy, delicate Pansy, in the way she touched Lavender. Her eyes followed the other girl as she walked out into the night and headed towards the gates to apparate away. 

Draco couldn't help but smile as Pansy resettled herself and she sniffed back at him, always defensive and protective. 

"Not a word, Draco." 

"Never," he said softly as he looked into his tumbler of whiskey. They let the silence carry for a moment. "How's the business?" 

Pansy looked thoughtful for a moment. "It’s better than I could have hoped. I started with a handful of pureblood families who were willing to take a chance on me and let me redecorate small rooms. Second parlors, smaller guest suites and things like that. It was tough for a while; I didn't exactly come out of the War looking terribly good. None of the families that stayed neutral would touch me, and anyone who was trying to revamp their image wasn't exactly keen on associating with me. I think the only reason I got as much patronage as I did is because I'm good at matching the styles of my clients. It was very thin for a while.”

"But then I got a surprise offer to design a new restaurant that opened last year. I was so excited. They wanted a Viennese cafe style and there was a massive budget. Everything was very chic and I didn't even realize until the project was nearly done that the co-owner was second cousins with Lavender's mother." 

Draco raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Pansy had always been extremely cagey about her relationships. Even though everyone thought he and Pansy had been dating for most of fourth and fifth year, he still hadn't had much insight into Pansy's true feelings or who she spent her time with.

Not that it was unfair. He had never said a word to her about his long running obsession with Gryffindor's Princess. But still, Pansy had certainly known. 

They had provided a mutual protection to each other at a time when either of their romantic interests could have led to them being disinherited.

Pansy coughed a little and Draco caught the blush on her cheeks as she turned and gazed into the fire. 

Perhaps a little prompting was in order. 

"So Brown recommended you for the café job?" 

"She played it off like it was nothing when I found out. Just said that she'd seen the boudoir I did for Elspeth Flint and mentioned it to her uncle. But I found out later that she'd practically badgered him into hiring me." 

The blush was growing darker. 

"And?" he asked in a leading tone. 

"Oh, we had a row. A big one. I accused her of meddling. She called me stubborn and stupid. I said that I didn't need her help. She said that I was liar as well as a coward. And then she was just standing there, all pink and angry, and I just..." 

Draco could imagine what had happened next. Pansy was scarlet. 

"I never imagined that she would forgive me. Never. Not for trying to turn Potter over to the Dark Lord. She was the only thing that kept me going during seventh year. Even just seeing her across the Great Hall, made me feel like I could make it through the day. And then I ran like a coward, because I had seen the Dark Lord and I knew that there was no hope that anyone could win against him, not even Potter. And she stayed and fought because she had hope. And, even if she didn't, it was the right thing to do. Because she's a bloody Gryffindor." 

Yes, thought Draco, loving a Gryffindor was possibly the worst thing any Slytherin could do to themselves. 

"The whole time I was in that stupid tunnel leaving Hogwarts, I was screaming at myself to turn around, to go find her. To stun her and drag her out of the Castle. I wish I had. If I could have saved her from Greyback, it would be worth anything. It would be worth her never forgiving me." 

And Lavender wouldn't have forgiven her. Not if Pansy had taken away her choice to fight for her friends. Lavender Brown was a silly, fluffy thing but she believed in right and wrong as fiercely as anyone in her house. It was no wonder that Pansy couldn't resist her. 

Draco didn't know what to say. Pansy was still red, but she was staring into the fire in a determined way and blinking very fast. When she spoke there was a tiny catch in her voice, "I couldn't even see her in St. Mungo's afterwards. Not without causing a scene with her parents. I just sent her little flower bouquets every day. Tulips mostly. She really likes tulips. I never heard a thing back." 

"And things just went on. There was no way I was going back to Hogwarts in the fall even though I missed all the exams. I went to London, took some art history coursework at a Muggle university and started trying to make my decorating business happen. And I watched for her, of course, in the papers and things. We didn't see each other, but it didn't fade. Definitely not for me and I guess not for her either. You know what it's like." 

Yes, Draco did know what it was like. He had a horrible feeling that he and Pansy had been playing out parallel love stories throughout much of their time at Hogwarts, except that Pansy had apparently actually made a move at some point. He wondered if it had been before or after Lavender's very public romance with Ron Weasley. 

Draco thought for a moment of Granger, wild curls streaming in the sunlight as she made her broom rise up to her hand.

"But you found each other again," said Draco softly. "And you're happy?"

"So happy," whispered Pansy. "So unbelievably happy." 

Draco pretended that he didn't see the tear tracking down her cheek. Slytherins were taught from an early age to hide their emotions. In a House where every secret was currency, big displays often got a person into trouble. But Draco liked this vulnerable Pansy. She didn't act all snappy to hide when she was embarrassed. Hell, she didn't seem embarrassed at all. Just a little awed. 

"I am glad for you, Pans. One of us deserves a happy ending." 

There was a furrow between her brows when she looked at him. "You know, you deserve to be happy too."   
Draco snorted a little, there were many things that he deserved and happiness was not one of them. 

"I'm serious Draco. It took me a long time to come to terms with things, but we're not terrible people. We were raised badly and we sometimes did bad things, but that doesn't mean we deserve to be punished for the rest of our lives. Not if we're willing to change." 

But Draco wasn't sure that he was up for this part of the conversation. Pansy's happiness he could handle, but somehow the idea of his own future seemed frightening and distant. He thought about his son, who was probably safely asleep in his bed where he’d been lovingly tucked under the blankets. Merlin, he barely deserved to know that Orestes existed, let alone to have a place in his life. 

Pansy was still frowning at him, as though she could read his thoughts. 

"It's still her, isn't it?" 

Draco didn't respond. He didn't want to talk about this. Pansy was probably the only one who knew how he had felt, the only one who would understand why he was holding back now. But he still couldn't admit everything to her, it was too much. 

"You could still try," offered Pansy. "Even just to make amends." 

"You don't understand," said Draco roughly. "Some things really are unforgivable." 

"But still," Pansy began. 

"Pansy, don't," Draco couldn't take this. It was one thing to listen to Pansy coo over Lavender Brown but another to be interrogated on this, of all damn subjects.   
Pansy stiffened, he could physically feel her withdrawing. He tried again, softening his tone. "Things happened... when she was captured and held at the Manor things happened. She won't forgive me." 

She looked at him for a long moment and then let the topic drop. They talked about design after that, and Pansy's new Art Nouveau project that would refurbish a rather famous Parisian tea shop back to the glory days of the Belle Époque. There was no talk of past romances or unforgivable actions.   
But when she saw him out the door several hours later, Pansy let her hand linger against his cheek. "If nothing else, try to forgive yourself Draco." 

He thought about those words as he walked into the breezy night and apparated away.


End file.
